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HEAD...RAGE...GHOSTS...EYES...TRUST...SILENCE...CRUSH

You hide behind walls, you're deep in the corners. Insects flit around your hunched shoulders as you skulk and you avoid. You're the constant tapping and squealing behind my HEAD - did I tell you I was deaf? There's RAGE there, you and me - there's guttural screams of anger, yours for what was, mine for what wasn't. GHOSTS are the key that unlocks past/present/future. Ghosts are memory in aspic. Do I know you? EYES are the windows of the soul, which is why they are always blanked and evasive. TRUST is really rust with an extra T - "Do you trust me?" "With my life!" "Then give me your life." SILENCE. Life is a firebrand, it sparks and it fizzes, it pops and it grinds. Injure and be injured - fire and be fire, flesh and be flesh. You were a beacon, a vehicle with direction and no shame - but you were a juggernaut of greed and delusion. CRUSH those endless bones under wheels of steel. It will be the making of us all (you said)...

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His brain moved always a few seconds behind his face. His head could acknowledge, his head could understand, but his mind was forever wrapped in numbness, peaceable, voluntary, equivocal numbness. He would smile, and his mind would kind of understand, but be so far behind the feeling as if it be on another world. He could touch, he could feel, he could be in the moment. Angels could dance around him, demons could kiss his feet, and he would stare hood-eyed and unblinking...all he wanted was silence, what he needed was stillness, what he got was numbness. But the world stayed away, a fog between himself and the chaos, the demands, the impatience...so that was something, he couldn't complain.

Your eyes flicker and roll, your eyelids ripple without movement. You sit alone. You mumble and whisper with intent, with focus. There are incantations, there are spells, there are names and there are numbers, so much to do. The moon is full, the moon is narrow. There are shadows that drift across the floor, some are from the moon...some are not. Shadows slide with a movement and intent of their own, they have the power and strength to forge the journey, to touch the edges of souls incarnate, and you need them. They move around you in an increasing dark swirl as you sit on the bed, rocking to and fro - repeating over and over: "What is my name? What is my number?..." There is is no answer, but the shadows swirl faster as they suck light from the room. It's time. You sit up, breath deeply, and cast your arms wide, wide enough to bring forth a gateway. The shadows rise, and swirl about you in a black impenetrable vortex. You cast your arms wide as a dark rim of small circl…

She saw him standing at the crossroads, one foot firmly planted in the dust, the other hovering in mid-air, in mid-step, in mid-moment. He saw her lying sidewise on her bed, stroking her hair with one hand, holding the quilt in a tight fist with the other. She saw him sitting at a table, hands on knees, lips mumbling the ten thousand names in tandem to the night. He saw her, blade in hand, sliding the edge along thigh and shoulder, singing the nursery rhyme - the only nursery rhyme. She saw him smoking the end of a cigarette, a heavy draw in, a stare at the stub in his cradled hand, a flick of ash and an exhale of smoke. He saw her standing in a doorway, head cocked to the left, then to the right, dreaming the dream of magic and reality, each different, yet the same. She saw him sitting on the floor, knees up and bony, an open book lodged between them, reading and rereading the same paragraph over and over. He saw her at the end of life, surrounded by blackbirds, all ready and waiting…